Word Count: 961

Paris was done moping.

He’d spent a week compulsively checking his phone, pouting when there was no text message waiting for him after class, and frowning in both anger and annoyance every time it rang only for the call to come from no one but his mother. Ever since the drama filled evening at his house -- he refused to say his name, and did his best not to so much as think of him -- Paris had been lying about or wandering around town in various states of depression.

He was done with it. The constant sadness was exhausting. He wanted to feel exhilarated again, he wanted to have fun and, damn it, that’s what he was going to do!

The upbeat music had returned, Christina’s powerful voice resounding between the walls of the bathroom, filtering out of the pink and silver star-spangled radio on the counter by the sink. Paris bobbed his head and sang along, belting out the lyrics as if he hadn’t a single care in the world. And he didn’t. Why should he? He’d been fine on his own before all this had happened. Why shouldn’t he be fine on his own now?

The bathtub was half filled with water. Paris stood there in his favorite pair of lacy black panties, one leg propped up on the side of the tub, covered in a layer of white foam. In his right hand he held a bright pink razor, which he deftly swiped up his leg, occasionally rinsing it off with a swish into the bathwater.

He was going to go out tonight. He was going to go out and he was going to meet people, and he was going to drink and probably end up crashing at someone else’s place after a bit of naughty business. It was going to be exciting, hot, and absolutely glorious. He wasn’t going to settle for a greasy punk or some lame high school drop-out tonight, oh no. He wanted someone sexy. Someone tall, dark, and handsome, and with a steady income.

After all the trouble he’d gone through recently, Paris thought he deserved the best.

“He’s a one stop shop~ Makes my panties drop~” Paris sang as he did a little dance, before running the razor up his leg again.

The bathroom door opened at that moment, surprising Paris with its suddenness. He cursed under his breath when the sharp edge of the razor nicked his shin, turning to glare over his shoulder at the offending party.

His father stood in the doorway, staring at him as if he’d never seen anything so strange in his life.

“What the ******** are you doing?” Henri LeFay -- large, grizzled, and unlike Paris in every way but for the turquoise color of his eyes -- asked in his surly voice.

Paris rolled his eyes and attempted to staunch the small trickle of blood on his leg. “Shaving. What does it look like?”

His dad looked at him, clearly thinking him insane. Regardless, he didn’t question it further, and merely grumbled, “You’re taking too damn long,” before making his way to the toilet to relieve himself.

“Dad, seriously, come on,” Paris complained, making a face and turning away as he went back to the task at hand. “Some privacy would be nice. It wouldn’t kill you to at least pretend as if you have some class.”

“What, like you?”

Paris frowned but didn’t deign the sarcastic response with a reply.

“Why aren’t you at school? Aren’t they supposed to have you locked up there?”

“It’s the weekend, Dad. I came home with the intention of avoiding the other Neanderthals that make up the general population of that place.”

“Not good enough for you, hm?” his father sneered. Paris assumed his father was quite pleased with the arrangement.

“Not in the least.”

“Good. It’ll keep you out of trouble.”

Paris rolled his eyes again. He was tempted to comment that gathering a bunch of troublesome boys together and housing them all in the same place only allowed for more trouble to occur between them, whether or not it was discouraged. Somehow he didn’t think his father would see things that way, and so he kept his mouth shut.

He heard the toilet flush and assumed he would be left alone again, but Henri failed to make his way out of that bathroom, and instead stood there staring at him. The expression on his face was a mix of perplexity and disgust. Paris glanced at him with his eyebrows raised, waiting for him to say whatever it was that was on his mind.

Finally, Henri seemed capable of speech again. “Where the hell did you even come from?”

Paris snorted. Once he was satisfied that his leg had stopped bleeding, he went back to carefully maneuvering his razor through the shaving cream. “I’m the fruit of your loins, Dad.”

“You got the fruit bit right,” his dad grumbled.

“If that was supposed to be an insult, I wasn’t very offended.”

Henri glowered, and then stalked out of the bathroom without washing his hands, leaving the door open as he muttered “Fairy” under his breath.

“Just living up to the last name, Dad!” Paris called out to him, grinning as he heard him swear loudly in response. Paris snickered over his minor victory, but was otherwise completely unconcerned by the entire exchange.

He raised his voice to sing loudly to the music still playing on the radio, enunciating the more suggestive or obscene lyrics so that his father would be sure to hear them.

Paris couldn’t help but smile ever so slightly. This was how things had always been, after all. It wasn’t ideal, but it was normal to him, and normal was what he strived for.